Hell and High Water
by Mestophilies
Summary: Set in the vicioux-verse. The Winter War is over and done with, but what happens when someone stops to pick up the remains? When hollow and shinigami meet, what may flower in desert sands and lonely hearts? Rated for language  and cause I'm paranoid.
1. Prologue: A Broken Coda

**AN: I'm back~ New story, new ideas and hopefully a more managable schedule. I know I'm going to need to update some of my other stuff. Please bear with me!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, Tite Kubo does. This story is also set (!with permission!) in an alternate universe created by the one and only vicioux. The idea for the story is mine, _as is the poem below._ (You steal, you DIE!) Further and expanded disclaimer in the next chapter.**

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><p><strong>Prologue: A Broken Coda<strong>

The heart catches the ash, blown by the breeze  
>and unseen by naked eyes: cannot sleep<br>till grim eyes and dead dreams lift this loss of ease –  
>merciful thing: the moon must slowly creep<br>upon a throne that never once was hers –  
>and the soul is split in this forgetful time<br>where loneliness rides with insensible spurs:  
>over sands and under moon – hears the chime<br>of the last hour, whose despair now fades away –  
>intoxicated – with a rage that decays,<br>with a laughing madness – screams to the sky,  
>claws at the ground, raises head, breathes a sigh –<br>then gently clasps the hand, in this time of need,  
>that is offered by Death on his quiet steed.<p>

Lifeless, the barren wastes breathed in soundless eternity. They stretched endlessly, dune leading to vale and valley and into vast field again – nothing but white sand in all directions. White sand: thoughts, as joy and hope, lay buried deep and forgotten beneath them. The still, same, sightless moon bled its light into the white-darkness of the desert, casting the bleached and broken land into slow, but achingly stark relief. The black pitch of the eternal night remained, though worn and exhausted as a life at the end of its tether, but refuses to break – perseveres and can be seen in the lines on the face of that sand-sea.

Within the most desolate of that bleak place existed only a nothingness. No creatures wandered there, no life stirred.

That suited its inhabitants just fine.

"Have they finished?" A voice rang out across the empty expanse. Its speaker could not be seen.

"Yes. Just now, as you well know." The answer seemed to hang in the air; soft indifference tempered by a deathly apathy.

A third voice forced itself rudely out of the deep nothingness. "What next?"

"We watch…and wait."

The voice echoed for a moment, before it faded away. Nothing remained. The empty wastes were brought to silence again.

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><p><strong>AN: Worked hard on this poem. I write the stuff as a hobby, so expect more of it in the future. Read and review!<strong>


	2. Chapter 1: Faux, the Ending

**AN: New story here (I'M ALIVE), and thanks goes first and foremost to vicioux who let me set this story in the absolutely awesome alternate Bleach universe she's created!**

**Disclaimer: Official bit here. I do not own Bleach (I wish!). It belongs to Tite Kubo. **

**The universe this is set in (which I like to call the vicioux-verse) belongs solely to the awesome vicioux. Check out some other of her stories on fanfiction here ( **.net/u1881234/vicioux**)! **

**The only things I own are the idea for the story and my OC, Shinshiro Suzuki!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Faux, the Ending<strong>

Smoke and fire danced amongst the wrack and ruin of the city. An uncontrolled haze of reiatsu still hung stiflingly thick in the air, refusing to dissipate even after the clamour of war had fallen to the grim silence of blood-swollen peace. Echoes of raw unadulterated power crackled dimly through the split and rubble-strewn streets, etched vividly on the very memory of the devastated cityscape. What little life remained clung weakly to the building-husks or the broken forms that once proudly housed them, lingering only when the will to survive managed to, however briefly, stave off the inescapable tide of darkness and, thereafter, oblivion.

Two battles had been fought to bring the war to a close. The first, which had been fought before the fortress of Las Noches, could only have seemed to the weaker combatants like a final reckoning between the gods. Aizen and his Espada and the Captains of the Gotei 13 had battled unceasingly, with the Gotei 13 slowly losing ground until, out of nowhere, it was heard that two Espadas had defected and brought with them both Orihime and the Hougyoku. The sharp spike in Aizen's reiatsu had been unmistakable and the Gotei 13, emboldened by the news and reinforced by Ichigo and the Vizards, pressed home their advantage.

Finally, Aizen was cut down by the Captain Commander, which set the stage for what seemed to be the final chapter of the war. At Aizen's death, two of the remaining Espada had, either out of desperation or confusion, opened a garganta and leapt through towards what they believed was Karakura Town. If not for Kisuke Urahara, it might well have been the case, with living souls paying the price for the war. As it was, they landed in a mock-up: a fake Karakura Town that had been erected in case Aizen brought the war to the living world. Cornered and trapped, they met the chasing Ichigo, Rukia, Renji and several captains in a cataclysmic last stand.

The artificial city, the quaint shops and the comfy-looking houses were blasted into a primeval landscape of caves and canyons by this, and even now the empty battlefield was filled with rampant energies that assaulted the senses and threatened to drag anyone who entered into an overwhelming spiral of despair. As a consequence, few shinigami were willing to even consider entering the area, let alone spending hours searching through the desolation for proof of their enemies' demise or for signs that their fallen allies had survived.

Nonetheless, the hesitant steps of two shinigami and the creak of the wagon they pulled behind them reverberated unwanted and singular down the deserted road and the derelict structures. The comfortless light of the still-burning flames licked their thin shadows into vast being, flying and fleeing from wall to wall, escaping into blackened windows and shattered doorways before being torn back again into the dim and dying light by their owners' progress.

The only shinigami who could be bullied or coerced into looking for survivors or – in a worst-case scenario – bodies in this particular area were…

"Shiro, do we really have to look around here?"

…Hanatarō Yamada, which was unsurprising to say the least seeing as people almost always bullied him into doing something, and…

"Hana, if we don't do it, no one else is going to."

…Shinshiro Suzuki , which was very surprising, seeing as no one ever wanted to try forcing him to do anything he didn't want lest they lose an arm.

"Anyway, this is the last sector. Once we're done looking around here, we can go home. Just think of that!"

Even as he said that, he thought, _let's be honest though: neither of us really should be here. My squad has absolutely nothing to do with clean-up or salvage operations, and Hana's just not cut out for this kind of stuff, this death and destruction and the like. He should be back with the rest of 4th Squad running around and healing people…_

Hanatarō was here mostly because of his squad's Third Seat, Iemura, who had practically thrown the poor boy and the supply wagon straight through the Senkaimon when he was asked to 'volunteer' someone by Captain Unohana, who was far too busy attending to the Captain Commander's wounds to go herself.

As he was a close friend of the luckless healer, Shiro had asked – note: quietly and coldly threatened to cut the blonde bastard's head off if he did that to Hanatarō again, before jumping through the Senkaimon – to go as well. No one had objected and no one had gone after him, to his great relief. Nonetheless, he had a feeling that blondie would try to get him back on charges of insubordination or such like. _I'd love to see him try._

As soon as they had arrived with the wagon – for the dead or the wounded they weren't told – he had blanketed both himself and Hanatarō in a thin layer of his reiatsu to protect them from the unceasing surges of spiritual pressure that burst erratically throughout the city like maddened thunder. If not, Shiro knew Hanatarō would have collapsed long ago. This was raw power that pulsated though the air, wild and unrestrained, the combination of the very elements, in which life and sense would be swallowed in a dying instant.

Despite the protection, he still felt weak and uneasy, and he saw in the corner of his eye how Hanatarō nervously glanced from side to side, pale and scared as he walked beside him. These were the powers of the strongest souls of three worlds, and they threatened, even now, to tear the fabric of the false city apart in a vortex of miasma. Urahara, the newly re-appointed Captain of the 12th had apparently given a guarantee to the Captain Commander that his fake Karakura Town wouldn't fall apart, but nonetheless that sounded a lot less assuring once they were actually in the very centre of the place.

"Shiro?"

"Mm?"

"How long do you think it's been since we started?"

"Oh… I'm not sure. Give me a moment, will you?" Shiro rummaged through the small satchel he wore with his free hand, finally pulling out a black albeit chainless pocket watch. He gazed at it for a fraction of a moment before shaking it vigorously, muttering under his breath, "…stupid, useless thing…going backwards at a time like this –"

Suddenly, he felt it shudder in his hand and stopped shaking it. Out of nowhere, it seemed, a tendril of very visible spiritual energy had latched hungrily onto the mechanical device and, before his and Hana's eyes, the glass front of the watch suddenly split into two with an audible, and very, very painful-sounding, crack.

They looked at each other.

"We really should hurry and get this over with," Shiro murmured, tossing the ruined watch into a crevice nearby. Hanatarō only nodded mutely in reply.

Several minutes passed in a silence that seemed to Hanatarō both nervous and uncomfortable. They continued onwards, pulling the medical-supply wagon behind them, their weary eyes gazing at the wholesale destruction wrought upon the city. It was Hanatarō who chose to break the silence.

"Um…"

_That didn't last long, dammit. I wish people'd realize that I like the quiet… _He sighed quietly to himself…_ On the other hand, saying no to Hana's a bit like kicking a puppy: neither fair nor nice. Kami knows how much abuse gets dumped on his head by most everyone… _before he replied in a very neutral tone, "Yes, Hana?"

Hanatarō seemed to be debating whether or not to ask the question. Finally, he gave his companion an unhappy, sidelong look and asked, "Shiro, are you shielding me with your reiatsu?"

"Quite… how did you guess?" Shiro hid his surprise: as far as he knew, Hanatarō wasn't all that good at sensing spiritual energy, let alone spiritual pressure quite as subtle as his.

Hanatarō simply shrugged. "If you didn't, I probably would've ended up like your watch. Right?"

"It's not like you to be so morbid, Hana. Usually you're the cheerful one and I'm Doom-and-Gloom." _Or at least according to Lieutenant Kusajishi, the little sweet-toothed monstrosity._ "Have a little more faith in yourself and your abilities, Hana. You're not a weak or a bad soul reaper, you know, regardless of what that four-eyed blondie says." He added the last part firmly, as he saw Hanatarō's mouth opening to object.

Shiro continued on, "In any case, us two were the only ones brave enough to do this, not like those arrogant, hypocritical, f –"

As he turned his head to look at Hanatarō, he caught his foot on something sticking out of the pavement. Shiro went in half a second from standing straight up looking at Hanatarō to lying flat on the ground as though he had been ironed onto it, with a very surprised Hanatarō looking at him with wide eyes.

A mildly agonized "…ouch" drifted upwards to Hanatarō from his prone form.

In answer, quiet sniggering meandered its way down to his ears.

"…'s not funny."

"If you say so…" Snigger, snigger.

Shiro got up slowly, carefully brushing the dust and soot off his clothes, one hand gingerly rubbing the tender and reddened side of his face that had decided to say hello to the floor, "Well, at least you're enjoying yourself."

Finally retaking his place at one of the wagon's handles, Shiro shot a mock glare at his companion, who answered only with a mischievous smile of his own. _It's only around a close friend like Hana that I can drop all pretences and remove the masks that I wear with other people. I'm allowed to be nothing more or less than myself. And I know he feels similar too: here he's Hana. Not a '4th squad pansy' or a 'useless 7th Seat'. Just Hana._

They both then looked down at the thing he had tripped on. _What th – ice!_

The two shinigami raised their eyes and finally took proper stock of their surroundings. Enormous shards of ice and mountains of frost littered the entirety of the street, while deep, angry furrows and long, claw-like gouges had been slashed into almost every conceivable surface. The whirlwind of spiritual energy emanating from this area in particular was especially familiar to Hanatarō, who started fidgeting nervously where he stood.

"Kuchiki, Abarai and Kurosaki?" Shiro asked, glancing towards Hanatarō for confirmation. He was far from sure, having never been near enough to any of the three to have ever experienced their reiatsu, except for a brief moment when they and the captains had engaged Aizen and his Espada in the low and level sands of Hueco Mundo. Nonetheless, he had an inkling that he was right.

Hanatarō nodded, and then surprisingly pulled forward first, as though he wanted very much wanted to get it over with. Taken aback, Shiro hurried as the wagon rattled and shook as its hard, wooden wheels met and bounced on the uneven, war-torn surface of the blasted landscape.

_Is he annoyed? Certainly felt his reiatsu fluctuate for a moment. Was it something I sa– ah…_ "Hana, do you like Kuchiki?"

Hanatarō turned his glance downwards to avoid the questioning gaze of his friend, but the silent gesture was enough of a sign for him.

"Since when?"

Hanatarō stopped, sighing before he moved to sit on a large, flat-topped piece of ice-encrusted rubble. "When she was imprisoned… I cleaned her cell every day and well… but she likes Ichigo and um…"

"You feel you can't compete." Shiro joined him on the make-shift seat as he carefully increased the amount of reiatsu he was releasing so as to allow them a reprieve without risk of injury, hopefully, from their surroundings. _And, knowing you, you also respect Kurosaki a lot, since it was you who told me all about him when he first broke into the Seireitei; saved you from those 11th bastards; and beat both Captains Kenpachi and Kuchiki._ Hanatarō's eyes didn't move from his feet.

"I know I can't." He muttered unhappily, angling a foot to send a smallish stone that was lying near the base of the seat into orbit. While it might have seemed like a good way to vent his frustrations, Hanatarō realized a moment too late that a piece of concrete of any size was considerably harder than any part of him. He yelped with, predictably, pain when his foot connected with the stone. The unmarred stone clattered a mockingly short distance away, as Hanatarō rubbed his abused big toe to stop it throbbing.

"And I'm guessing Kurosaki also likes her too…? "Shiro asked, watching his friend put his foot, hesitantly, back down on the ground. Hanatarō refused to look him in the eye, only nodding weakly before burying his face in his hands.

_Hana's first love's a Kuchiki noble, who's already and, probably, happily in love with a guy who could probably beat up a few captains on a good day… He sighed frustrated, giving the swirling heavens above them one smoulderingly angry evil-eye._

_There really is no god._

He turned his attention back to Hanatarō and, in quiet, contemplative, and exceptionally neutral voice, he asked, "Do you hate Kurosaki or Kuchiki because of it?"

Hanatarō looked up, startled, "No!"

Shiro only raised a questioning eyebrow in response, as though in disbelief or in need of explanation.

"I don't hate either one of them," said Hanatarō distractedly, wringing his hands in his lap, "I like the both of them, and they've always been nice to me! I mean Ichigo helped me all those times and Rukia's always been polite to me and it's just that I – I don't know what to do! Shiro, I –"

"Hana. Take a breath, please."

Hanatarō stopped his rant and, breathing heavily as though he had been running a marathon with the seated officers of the 11th squad at his heels, looked carefully at his friend. Shiro had a serious, appraising look on his face that seemed to cut through the air with its intensity. Hanatarō could only stare at him in nervous anticipation.

"Hana, what do you want to do?"

Hanatarō gazed uncomprehendingly at his friend for a moment before staring hard at his feet again, this time chewing on his lip in deep thought. Several long minutes passed while Shiro watched him think. All around, the grim aurora of reiatsu in the sky flared and receded haphazardly while the huge ice-fragments reflected and glistened with the dancing lights. Finally Hanatarō murmured a reply.

"I want her to be happy, Shiro."

Hanatarō's eyes glinted with both unshed tears and a quiet determination that seemed to shine through the turmoil and confusion that had seized him not a while before. It was the same determination that allowed him to heal even the most abusive of the Gotei 13 despite their cruelty towards him. It was the same determination that had allowed him to do his duty despite his fears and his lack of confidence. And it was the very same determination that had always allowed him to weather through every mishap that had been thrown his way and to smile despite of it.

"Even if it means that she'll be with someone else?" Shiro was surprise, if only slightly so, by his friend's answer. Hanatarō, he knew, was and still remained a far better person than most people, being kind, considerate and dependable; certainly not the idiot most people assumed he was from his clumsiness and somewhat innocent demeanour. What surprised him was that his friend was willing to go so far as to let go of his very first love to ensure her happiness.

"Even is it means she'll be with Ichigo." Hanatarō's resolve spoke volumes of the young shinigami's selflessness and willingness to sacrifice his own happiness for others. Shiro couldn't help but sit in awe of his friend.

"You know, Hana, I take my hat off to you."

"You're not wearing one though." Hanatarō looked at him with wide, confused eyes.

Shiro sighed. "I know. Figure of speech. I've got one at home though. I'll show it to you when we get back." Talking to Hanatarō often required both an inordinate amount of patience and a realization that general knowledge sometimes skipped out on enlightening the young shinigami. At best, this was endearing and highlighted his naïveté. At worst, it made whoever was talking to him intensely irritated. _Luckily, I'm used to it. We've known each other for a long time after all…_

Shiro got to his feet, watching Hanatarō do the same. "Come on. Only this area left; then we can head home."

Hanatarō nodded and they both started pulling the wagon again. Rounding a corner into what must have once been a pleasant shop-lined avenue. Only gaping holes remained in the buildings that still stood. The place crackled with energy and icicles larger than the wagon were half-buried into the pavement like grim monuments. It was almost poetic in the despair and desolation that seemed to infuse the place; more so than any of the other sights they had yet seen. Unfortunately for the two shinigami, they barely had time to register their surroundings when a desperately _enraged_ voice cut through the air like a gunshot.

"Die, shinigami scum!"

A red beam of pure destruction roared through the air, hurtling down the street towards the two. In an instant, Shiro had shoved Hanatarō behind him and drew his sword, feeling an unhappily familiar void where his zanpakutō spirit once inhabited. Ignoring the sharp pang of loss, he swung hard at the approaching beam, focusing his reiatsu onto his blade as a dull sheen of dark blue energy. The flat of his sword met the cero with the sound of a thunderclap.

The cero, parried and deflected by his reiatsu, shot off to the side into a derelict building that immediately ceased to exist as he and Hanatarō were thrown painfully into the wagon. Despite the shock of pain that he felt when his back connected with the wooden wagon-front, Shiro managed to scramble back to his feet in a moment, leaving a groaning and slightly squashed Hanatarō buried under a heap of supplies on the wagon. As a second cero drew towards him, he braced himself, sword at the ready.

"Take this!" He roared as his sword connected with the cero with another loud crack, sending the beam rebounding back down the street. It shot far off into the distance where it exploded spectacularly and sent several shattered high-rises tumbling to the ground.

_This would be so much easier if I actually knew where the person shooting at me is, _he thought, sending another straight up into the sky,_ thing is with these stupid things is that they're bright enough to mistake as the blasted sun. Can't see a damned thing behind them once they're heading your wa– Hana!_

Shiro almost missed the next one when Hanatarō, who had managed to stagger out of the wagon, distracted him for a moment by tugging hard, a little too hard, on his kosode. The result was both of them almost falling over, with him only just managing to knock the cero away with a lucky backhand through another building.

He looked at Hanatarō who was looking at him with that same, familiar, intense kind of determination as he spoke, "Can't we try asking whoever it is to stop?"

"What! You gone mad or something?" Shiro said incredulously. _We're being shot at and Hana wants us to try talking? Maybe this Kuchiki thing's got his head tied in a knot or something. If I were him I'd suggest running: after all, it's just me and him against Kami knows how many blasted arrancar, and neither of us are any good, in my case anymore, at fighting. We should make a break for it. If I cover and he runs, we could –_

Hanatarō's words broke through his runaway internal monologue. "Please! Then we don't have to fight!"

"And if they keep shooting? Then what?" Shiro shot back in reply. Nonetheless, the idea that they could get away without the possibility of being blown away was starting to latch on to him as well.

"Please!" Hanatarō's eyes pleaded with his friend as he tried to convince him to try his approach.

"Shit." His lack of concentration caused him to knock one cero into the building just to the side of them. The explosion sent them both tumbling sideways as the air was thick with flying rubble and ash. As the smoke cleared, he and Hanatarō lay panting on the ground, covered in soot. As the both got up, carelessly brushing the dust off themselves, Shiro shook his head with a fond smile on his face, "You'll really be the death of me."

"Oi!" He shouted, now turned to face where he thought most of the ceros had originated, his voice reverberating down the street and echoing through the gutted wrecks, "Whoever's shooting at us, hold up! We are not here to hurt you! I repeat: We are not here to hurt you!"

"Yeah? Why the fuck should we believe you!" A distinctly feminine voiced echoed back in response, bouncing along the burnt-out buildings to meet them. Shiro hid his surprise, despite a traitorous voice in the back of his mind spluttering:_ the arrancar shooting us is a girl!_

"For one thing we haven't done anything to you! We're healers!" _Or at least one of us is. I'm just tagging along._ Hanatarō then decided to throw in his two bits as well, "We'll heal you if you're injured! Aizen's dead! We don't have to fight since the war is _over_!"

Silence. For a moment, the tension in the air was so palpable, so tangible, that Shiro could have sliced it in two with his zanpakutō.

Finally, the voice answered, reluctant in every syllable, "Fine. Fuckin' shinigami. Walk forwards and don't try anything or I'll blast you."

"We've got a wagon of medical supplies. Can we bring that along too?" Hanatarō shouted.

Then even more reluctantly, "Fine."

Shiro shot Hanatarō an annoyed look as he sheathed his zanpakutō. Slowly, cautiously, they walked down the street, the wagon creaking with a bizarre normality that seemed surreal in the tense atmosphere. Despite the expression of extreme calm on his face, Shiro was both nervous and itching to pull out his sword again in case whoever had been shooting at them decided to finish them off anyways. He squashed the urge internally and settled with observing his companion. Hanatarō, he noticed, was just as nervous, but was also trying to hide it, unlike him, under a mask of optimistic bliss. T_he things I do for a friend. I hope you know what we're getting into, Hana._

It took them about two minutes to reach the lip of the crater; the word 'crater' was perhaps an understatement in any case: where once an entire city block had existed, now a fissure two-storeys deep was left, exposing the organs that lay beneath the concrete skin of a city: the broken ends of pipes and torn cables jutted out of the exposed earth and the earth was slick with murk-water, hoarfrost and, in places, blood. Nor was the crater empty either: huge clusters of ice jutted out like crude trees that had taken root and glinted evilly in the orange light.

"How nice," Shiro muttered drily to himself. _Can't see anyone yet, damn it. Ten to one whoever it is going to ask us to – _"Put down your weapons and come down here!" _– after which we will proceed to do so and get ourselves shot, or cero'd, or stabbed, or blasted, or blown up, or… whatever, to second death, as it were. Hana, if we get out of this, I'm swear I'm going to tie you up and suspend you from the roof of the 11th squad barracks. Dammit! I'm really getting too worked up, justifiably though, about this. Calm down. Calm. Breathe…_

Hana gave him a nervous sideways glance as they both threw down their zanpakutōs, whispering, "D-d'you think they're going to-to–"

"I don't know, Hana, _what do you think_?" Shiro hissed. In any other place, he could have easily figured out where the arrancar was by sensing her reiatsu. As it was, he could sense squat with the sky-full of very volatile spiritual energy crackling over their heads. Before, he could have picked his fight_ – like those with the 11th –_ when, where and with whom it suited him. Now, he felt blind, vulnerable, supremely insecure; and he was forcefully reminded of his weakness, and the events that had led to them. Forcing himself to focus, he repressed the upsurge of fear and self-loathing that accompanied those thoughts. He contained himself enough to mutter, "What really irks me is that they could be anywhere, Hana. They might be in that building up there, or they could be hiding amongst these icicles, or –"

"Or I could be right behind you."

The feminine voice was accompanied by the feeling of something very, _very_ sharp poking into his back.

"If you really want to help, then turn around _slowly_ and heal my arm, you shinigami." The last word was spat out like poison from a wound.

_Certainly a very fine how-de-doo. O Kami. Breathe._ Shiro hoped that the frantic beating of his heart was audible to himself alone. When the arrancar had spoken behind him, it had taken all of his willpower to stop himself from jumping out of his skin. Aloud, and managing to keep his frayed nerves under control, he said, "I'm not that good a healer. I think you better ask Hana here to help. Right, Hana?"

Hanatarō nodded slowly. Then, feeling the pressure of her weapon disappear, he breathed out a breath he did not know he was holding and turned around, Hanatarō following suit.

The arrancar was not what Shiro expected.

For one thing, the arrancar was far from the hulking monstrosity he had been envisaging in his mind's eye. She was shorter than he was, but still half a head taller than Hanatarō. _Poor Hana,_ Shiro thought, _everyone's taller than him, it seems. Well, maybe with the exception of Lieutenant Yachiru or Captain Soifon…_ Her face was framed by short, straight, chin-length dark hair, which was dirty with dried blood and dust, like the torn white uniform that hung off her slight body. The eyes that gazed at them with the utmost loathing were of different colours, one ice-blue, the other amber and ringed with a red outline. On her forehead remained the most visual reminder of her hollow nature: a long white horn that sprouted out of a white headpiece that reached to the back of her head.

Shiro's gaze wandered down to the weapon in her hand. _Kami. That's a release you don't see every day._ A bone white chakram was clenched tightly in her hand. The arrancar grit her teeth when she saw Hanatarō extend a hesitant hand towards her other arm. The chakram was suddenly an inch away from his face. Hanatarō made an odd squeak of a noise as he froze.

"Don't fuckin' touch me." The arrancar's voice promised more than it threatened. The hand holding her weapon did not waver, and time seemed to hold its breath for a long moment.

"We've reached an _impasse_, it seems," Shiro muttered, "you want us to heal you, but you won't let us touch you. Where does that leave us?"

The arrancar glowered angrily at him but he met her gaze unflinchingly. _You're the one making the problems here, not me. Sort out your bloody priorities._

As though she could hear his thoughts, the arrancar's scowl deepened and the hate in her eyes grew even more intense. Nonetheless, she reluctantly lowered her weapon and gingerly raised her other arm. As it became illuminated by the flickering lights around, both Shiro and Hanatarōs could not help but wince. It was not a pretty sight. A gash from what might have been a barely dodged Getsuga Tensho ran the length of her arm, exposing muscle and bone from wrist to shoulder for the world to see. Blood was still flowing; the fingers of that hand being dyed crimson by it while the white of the arrancar's clothes having already been stained into deepest shades of maroon.

Hanatarō, as carefully and as gently as though he were picking up a crystal figurine, took hold of the arm that was being presented to him, his mind concentrating on how best he could heal it. Shiro on the other hand was fidgeting where he stood: he was focusing on the weapon in the arrancar's other hand, which was now aimed at Hanatarō's head. Hanatarō seemed not to notice it and, still gazing intently at the wound, murmured quietly to his friend, "Shiro, could you please get my bag? I think it might be in the wagon."

Shiro nodded, shooting a glare at the arrancar that said, '_don't you even think of trying anything_', before he turned and started clambering up the sides of the crater. It was far from comfortable as the ground was littered with pieces of building and broken pipe ends and ice jutted out like strange and crude saplings from the ground. Finally, he reached the wagon, which had been parked right at the lip of the crater. One he got to it, it still took him a full two minutes to find the bag, Hanatarō's impromptu flight into the wagon when they were being shot at having messed everything up therein. The bag clutched tightly under his arm, he started back down.

By the looks of it, nothing much had happened: both were now sitting on another small boulder made of ice. The arrancar's arm now rested on Hanatarō's lap and was bathed in a warm blue light from the healing kido that spilled from Hanatarō's hands. Shiro could clearly see the wound already beginning to heal; the bleeding having stopped entirely, which was remarkable considering how much was flowing earlier on. He smiled in unabashed pride as he approached. _If that's not some of the best healing this side of the afterlife… Hana, you really amaze me._

As he got nearer, Shiro noticed that the arrancar's face was turned determinedly away from Hanatarō _– Hmph. Probably doesn't want to look at us 'fuckin' Shinigami' –_ while the latter's cheeks were flushed a bright red _– probably from healing the ungrateful thing. Kami knows it's harder than it looks._

"Here," Shiro said as he drew up next to Hanatarō, who started as though he hadn't noticed Shiro's arrival before nodding absentmindedly, his thoughts clearly elsewhere as he took out a roll of bandages from his pack. _How decidedly odd. While Hana distracted isn't unusual to any degree, Hana distracted while healing, not to mention healing an arrancar with her sword, is really, really bizarre. This deserves quite a bit of thought. Not now though. _He filed his thoughts away in his mind for later. In any case, it was his turn to concentrate.

Closing his eyes, he tried to sense the reiatsu of the surroundings as best he could. Despite his best efforts, he could only just feel the spiritual pressure of the other two. He scowled: with the sky above, it was like swimming in the sea and trying to see the ocean floor while blindfolded. _Well_,he conceded, _it mightn't be quite that impossible but still… _Nonetheless, he could just manage to feel theirs and, taking a deep breath, focused on expanding his own reiatsu so that it enveloped the arrancar's as well._ It would be, as they say, a crying shame if that killer-sea up there was to ruin all of Hana's good work by zapping that ungrateful thing. Hm._

When Shiro opened his eyes, he saw the arrancar turn her head sharply in his direction, her eyes narrowing in overt suspicion as she felt his spiritual energy blanket her own. He met her gaze before shrugging in reply. _Mm. _He licked his lips in impish thought. _Blue-haired bitch. Or at least that's what quite a few people I know'd call her.__ Ha._

"Done." Hanatarō pronounced as he finished tying the bandage around her arm. For field dressings, it was surprisingly neat. The arrancar looked disbelievingly down at her arm, flexing and unflexing it until she seemed wholly satisfied with what she saw. Then her eyes moved back to the two Shinigami and they saw something in her eyes harden. Pointing her zanpakutō at them, she growled, "Get your cart. We'll be heading into there."

With her free hand she gestured behind her.

A thick, lightless forest of ice, much too large to have been created by Rukia alone, burst from the ground in frozen and horrid splendour; a wide path, probably cero-carved, snaked deep into the darkness between the ice crystals. Both Shinigami looked for a moment into the ominous, yawning entrance to the forest before looking back at each other.

_Oh fuck_.

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><p><strong>AN: First chapter is done. Originally going to be twice as long but I decided to split it. Next bit coming up soon. Read and review please!<strong>


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